


Too Much Information (Sting Explores His Sexuality)

by twinkfloyd



Category: The Police (Band)
Genre: Courtship, Erotic Handholding, Food Play, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Sex Tapes, Teacher/Student Roleplay, comedy of errors shit that i just eat up, it's smut, unrequited lust???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkfloyd/pseuds/twinkfloyd
Summary: "I'm a very sensitive intellectual artist-type individual, I have feelings. Dreams... Fantasies...""I'm sure you do."





	1. Biology 2

**Author's Note:**

> Intended to be my crack at PWP, turned moreso into shits and giggles. Open to suggestions for further chapters.

“You want me to do _what_ exactly?”

Sting palmed his face, “It’s- a kink thing, you play a sort of character and ex-” 

“Oh I know full and well what _kink_ is, them blokes 'I Really Got You' 'Lola' and all that?” Andy crossed his arms listening, restraining himself from chuckling at this supposed naivete, “I’ve been around that particular block a few times, and then the block they built on top of the old block. I’m just wondering, why _me_ , of all people?”

It had been a normal day when his bandmate seemingly at random had approached him with this proposition, no preamble or otherwise odd behavior leading up to it. Like the thought had simply flitted across his mind, and he sought the first receptive audience available. If anything, it flattered the older musician, for what meant one thing with an coterie of delightfully predisposed girls he was all too fond of was another entirely coming from his associate, the sex symbol. 

“There’s a certain kind of dynamic,” he began, trying to phrase things as perspicuous and appealing as possible given the situation. 

“I had a certain fantasy I was fond of, back when I was teaching. I had a favorite student, or one who liked to misbehave, you know they did it intentionally, to get my attention, and I’m keeping them after class for whatever reason. I go through the usual spiel, but we’ve both seen that look in each other’s eye and we know the real reason why we’re here- Of course I never acted upon it,” he clarified looking up, “They were teenagers, my students, I had a responsibility I would never.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Andy wrinkled his nose slightly. “So what, you want me to act this out and pretend to be your student?” 

“Oh, no... I was actually hoping you’d play the teacher,” Sting surprised him. 

“Huh.” he leaned back considering his request. If he’d seen Sting’s submissive side before, it had only been glimpses, what with him and Stewart constantly fighting for dominance in the studio, onstage, on the floor, out the door. Being more reserved and far more professional led him to usually taking that position out of necessity, if just to keep their trio from turning into a duo. Then again, who was he to know his proclivities, they didn’t tend to talk about such things save for bragging round the breakfast table about whatever big game they bagged the night before on the way back from the safari. More prurient details were left out while amongst ‘polite company’ but it didn’t mean one had to tell more than he felt free to do so. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to of course. I’m just a student of life, as they would say,” his intense stare implored him, “And I’m looking to satisfy my curiosity.”

Andy privately would have leapt at the chance, an opportunity to ‘exact his revenge’, the prize pigeon no more. Of course he would, even if it were just pretend. He shrugged, “Alright I’ll bite,” couldn’t act too eager, it was all part of the illusion of control. Couldn’t ruin the experience by letting him know how much he wanted this, you become a tool to your want. He let a small smile though, that was enough to know he was still interested. “I will see you after class young Master Sumner, I’d like to discuss that _**D**_ in biology…” he glanced down teasingly coaxing an enthusiastic grin out of Sting, “See if we can’t bring that grade up a bit.” 

 

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Andy straightened his desk again, adjusting a pen here, stack of papers there, presenting this scenario to the best of his ability. He wasn’t sure far he wanted him to take this, personally some dirty talk would have been more than enough for him. The “‘I think I lost an electron’ ‘are you sure?’ ‘i’m positive’” poster might’ve been going too far. “You, wanted to see me professor?” Sting swung the door open, wearing the frame as sultry as he could muster in his immaculately disheveled uniform. 

Andy felt his cheeks redden, half in embarrassment half arousal. “You’re late- tuck in that shirt boy,” he snapped rising in his chair. 

“ _The glasses, wear the glasses_ ,” Sting briefly broke character motioning to the dorky pair on the table that looked an awful lot like Miles’s. After quickly developing a headache putting them on Andy decided to wear them on his breast pocket instead, yeah he’d definitely nicked his specs to play make-believe. 

“Gordon,” he began again sternly, “Do you know why you’re here.” 

“Oh yes sir,” Sting crooned slinking towards him, practically throwing himself on his desk. 

“-You’ve had to repeat this class three times. I can’t keep holding you back, it’s going to reflect poorly on my end of the year report.”

“Well maybe you’re doing it on purpose, after all, I’ve been told I’m a pleasure to have in class.” At this point he had completely sprawled himself across the surface, knocking off several books and a mug onto the carpet. 

“So is that an apple in your pocket for me or are you just happy to see me?” Andy commented back drolly tracing his ruler along the seam of his trousers. 

“I don’t know,” Sting beamed playing to this role he’d evidently fallen into, “I failed biology three times, could be either.” 

“Shut up and kiss me you idiot.”

 

Miles narrowed his eyes feeling around the room and cursing under his breath, “I swear I had just set them down only a few minutes ago. Useless... This place looks like a tornado came through here, no wonder I can’t find a damn thing.” He exhaled sharply and wandered down the hallway, following some muffled conversation going on in the other room. 

“Oh yeah, more, like you mean it! I want to know you’ve been taking notes,” a voice huffed authoritatively, “You’ve got a lot of work to make up for young man if you ever want to amount for anything.”

“You’re just like my algebra homework babe; hard as fuck. I’ll be doing you on the kitchen table all night.”

Knowing better but choosing to ignore that good sense, Miles continued and opened the door shouting, “Has anyone seen my glasses I-” 

Sting and Andy froze as their manager squinted at the figures leaned against the heavy desk in the middle of the room faintly coming into focus. The smaller stared wide eyed a pair of frames slipping down a thin nose as the other frantically hid his in a book and Miles’s expression shifted from confusion to reluctance, dipping back out the door. “Actually nevermind, I don’t need to see anything. Carry on.” 

They stayed like this for a few seconds, Andy eventually relaxing and slumping against the table. He swatted Sting with his ruler again, leaving a mean red stripe across his ass and giving him a sharp yelp. “Bastard!” 

“Don’t talk back to your schoolmaster like that boy,” Andy smirked furrowing his brows holding his weapon aloft. 

Sting stood up rubbing his cheek sorely having lost his momentum for the time being. “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much, how about we let the student become the master?”

“You?” Andy scoffed, “Maybe when you’ve _earned it_. You’ll never get anywhere in life on just your looks expecting people to give you handouts.” He shook his head still laughing, “You’ve got a lot to learn young man.” 

Sting’s smile stiffened as Mr. Summers emboldened took him by the waist. Note to self: never let Andy take charge again. And people said he let power go to his head!


	2. J'aurais Toujours Faim de Toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mais non pouvons faire ce que nous voulons,   
> J'aurais toujours faim de toi.   
> No matter what I do,   
> I'm still hungry for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cheeky bit of smut! Not my strong suit! 
> 
> http://pm1.narvii.com/5662/307d3994d79789a1ce8c36836e1d5d1bdf03466c_00.jpg

“Ooh, you’re trying to spoil me!” Andy rubbed his hands together eying the spread of sweets that covered nearly every inch of the counter. He popped one into his mouth deciding which ones looked tastiest first, “What’d you do, buy out a chocolatier?”

“Nooo, it’s for a little game I wanna play later,” Sting crooned plucking a truffle from Andy’s fingers as he was about to sink his teeth in (“Hey!”). 

“Alright, I’ll bite- what’s this game?” 

“Nantaimori,” he bit into the chocolate letting the creamy center stain his lips. 

“Is… is that the thing with the tentacles?” Andy knitted his brows less enthusiastic about their arrangement. 

“Wh- no, what the fuck Andy? You dirty old man,” Sting shook his head, “First of all, it’s food play. Secondly, it’s an art form. You uncultured swine.”

He demonstrated with his hands, moving back over to the table. “The subject lays nude and is decorated with pieces of food, usually sushi but I can’t be arsed to find a decent fishmonger and I’m not too keen on my bedroom smelling like raw eel…” 

“Oh so we’re doing this on an actual bed for once, what about the crumbs?” Andy chirped bemused. 

“Unless your arse can fit on top the coffee table without breaking it I’m afraid so,” Sting shot him a dirty look as he boxed up his arsenal. 

“You know Stewart still thinks your dog was the one who knocked over his kit and put that big hole in one of the toms,” he raised a finger recalling the incident, “Poor thing, he shoves it away and it doesn’t even know why.” 

“Oh would you rather he know my _other_ dog was the one who did it?” Sting bristled succinctly. 

“At least I don’t bite.”

“Like hell you do!” 

 

During the time in which they’d started their extracurricular activities, it was true their third had been left in the dark about such goings on. It was for the best, they’d decided, afterall, why wouldn’t have Sting had gone to him instead if there had not been some reservations. Wives did not know, of course. _If_ nosy elder brothers knew, they certainly did not say anything about it, Miles, the smart sensible one. You got a lot further in life if you knew when to shut your trap, had to give him that. 

It wasn’t serious per se, but that was the nice thing about it. After all, what was a bit of kinky sex between two consenting heterosexual male friends? “Strip,” Sting commanded pointing at the mattress. 

Faithfully, the other disrobed, neatly shedding his trousers, shirt, shoes. Andy turned the photo of Frances and her husband around on the nightstand as he tossed his underwear aside and climbed into their bed. He kept his things on, merely rolling up the sleeves of his button up as if preparing for a big meal. Andy kept half-expecting him to put on a bib, or at least fold a napkin in his lap before digging in. “It’s a bit messy, innit?” the older man commented glancing up at his partner delicately placing chocolates over his body, struggling not to move as he did so. “You figure it’s gonna melt ‘n get all over the sheets. Look like you shit yourself.” 

Sting nearly slipped from his precarious position on the edge of the bed knocking several pieces off as he did so. “Fuck you! You don’t think I’m going to wash them afterwards?” 

“I’ve just never pictured you doing laundry before,” he acquiesced.

“ **I**!-”

Andy clicked his tongue staring up at the ceiling. “-Leave your sheets for your dear wife and she shakes her head tsk tsk tsk there he’s gone again Gordon shitting himself all over my good sheets.”

At this point he simply glared red in the face, unable to come up with an acceptable reply so buried himself in his task. “There, now stop wiggling or I’ll have to keep doing this,” he stood arms crossed at the end of the bed. Admiring his work, Sting did look the proverbial kid in the candy store; his model was more or less decorated head to toe with sweets, carefully balanced along limbs and nestled suggestively amidst the more sensitive areas. Not that Andy could really appreciate any of it from his vantage point, trying to get a good look merely gave him a unflattering collection of chins to go with his strained expression. 

“Do try to relax,” Sting scolded him, “Remember you’re supposed to be a table. And tables don’t talk back.” 

“You know somehow I’ve not yet found this terribly arousing,” the table protested, “If I wanted you to stand around criticizing my performance and making me feel like little more than a piece of furniture I could have just gone into the studio.”

Sting took a chocolate from his thigh and shoved it in Andy’s open mouth. “Thought I heard something hmm must’ve been my imagination. Ah, now where were we?” Climbing onto the bed, he lowered himself over his arrangement, delicately taking a truffle into his mouth, lips just barely brushing the exposed skin beneath it. 

Andy shivered slightly but laid back and yielded letting things run their course. “ _Complete submission_ just relax,” Sting whispered tracing the path he was making down his chest, the subtle touches from his lips and fingertips distracting. There was too the faint pressure scattered across his body, and the heat of his flesh. Anticipation weighing on him, testing his patience as the other savored the experience. 

The lower he got on the totem, the more time he took making sure to let the it melt in his mouth, nibble here lick there blah blah blah, cleaning where it had left its sticky mark on Andy’s flushed skin. Despite the initial frustrations of it all, the waiting- so much of this stuff ended up a lot of getting ready, a lot of waiting. Rope play, hypnotism, the thing with the wrapping paper, meditating oneself to orgasm? Honestly. Only in the magic Stingdom… Still, with all that anticipation there had to be some kind of pay off, he had to admit this level of attention he’d been receiving was tantalizing. And all you had to do was watch, that was your part of the deal. 

Sting’s smug face disappeared between his thighs, that hot cloying breath tasting more meat than sweet and finally giving in took him into his mouth, Andy’s pent up gasp breaking his silence. He barely looked up from his meal, bobbing swirling, all that dedication and devotion concentrated on what he’d supposed was the main course of his chef d’œuvre. Ravaged, hands netting the sheets it was unlikely he was holding on any much longer, his back already arching towards his bon vivant. 

 

Catching their breath, Sting sat back wiping the corner of his mouth looking like the cat who ate the canary. Andy, who’d been laying still the whole time not really doing anything, on his back, spent, staring back up at the ceiling. Exhaling, he drummed his fingers on his belly and glanced askance at his consort. “I feel like I need an after dinner smoke.” 

“And risk spoiling your appetite?” he scoffed, “I may _look_ like a snack but don’t expect anything less than a three course meal from me! ” 

“Come to think of it, _I’ve never seen you cook either…_ ”

The pack of cigarettes bounced off Andy’s head. “L’chèque s’il vous plaît, garçon.”


	3. Kodachrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't ask for it but here it is- Stewart discovers Sting's sex tape, gets traumatized, murders someone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdhajk, i hate writing smut.

Jesus-” there was a stumble and a number of loud clunks and clatters, “Rollerblading Christ.” A crash. “MOTHER-” And a pop. “Fffuckerfuckingfuckmesideways with a bloody goddamn crucifix!” Stewart swore loud enough to wake the dead as he nearly busted his ass mucking around in the dark. 

The only illumination here being the half-hearted flicker of a sodium lamp post in the parking lot didn’t give him much to work with attempting to right himself. Hands groped blindly, barely able to even make out their spindly shape, like a pair of ghostly starfish on the bottom of the ocean, feeling around the floor for their prey. He’d been lucky that something should have broken his fall, slowly coming into focus as his eyes adjusted to the light- Oh. 

Andy’s stupid blow up doll again; they’d gotten it for his birthday as a gag gift and proceeded to invite her into just about every situation, seating her with them at the kitchen table, watching sports together, taking her out for a walk in the park and just making a vulgar joke of it. Leaving her half-inflated in the already ignavigable walkway of the bus was only a recipe for disaster or maybe some new kind of guerrilla warfare against meddling bandmates. Pushing himself up Stewart lifted the doll’s limp form, inspecting the split that formed along the seam of her head where the leftover air forced itself out upon impact. He clicked his tongue ruminating over Andy’s broken toy and let its remains drop from his hands back to the floor for someone else to find. 

“Therrre we are,” he grabbed his video camera from the card table and looked it over mumbling to himself. “What… were you doing out here, hanging out with Sally?” Glimpsing back at the deflated puddle on the carpet he hit record with a smirk, “Somebody was- wait, full tape? Thought I’d just put in a new one yesterday.” 

The little red light in the corner blinked at him fiddling with the buttons. There was a chance he’d merely been nagging himself to and it had slipped his mind but his curiosity was eating away at him. He’d spotted some sort of projector in the conference of the hotel when they’d arrived earlier in the evening which in a matter of minutes was commandeered and jerry rigged in the relative privacy of well past midnight on the tour bus. Having set everything up, he rubbed his hands together and let it roll. There was a couple seconds of his ugly mug pulling faces at the beginning but it abruptly cut to another scene he had no recollection shooting. Sting sat coquettishly on a bed smiling at the camera, readjusting himself and posing suggestively. 

As he got more comfortable modeling for his adoring audience, Sting began to play with himself, demonstrating his yoga-honed flexibility running his hands along his toned body. The cameraperson zoomed in lovingly on the path he made from calf to clavicle, blurring for a second before training back in on his insufferable come-hither expression, coyly glancing aside a moment, hiding his pleasure. He made a libertine show of this want, of how good he felt, he good he could make you feel, until the director couldn’t take it anymore and climbed over onto the bed, anatomy out of focus. 

Stewart wanted to turn off the video and stop watching but he felt compelled to continue, equally fascinated and disgusted as the two tangled figures got increasingly lewd. This was definitely fucking, no love about it, not that he could make out their faces doing the sucking and fucking, but the number of fingers in places they shouldn’t be didn’t exactly suggest any sort of tenderness. Sting says something, a pause, the other person speaking, Sting laughs and crawls onto his hands and knees, peeking over his shoulder ass to the lens. The projector Stew finessed wasn’t equipped for audio so he only had the grainy visuals to go on. Couldn’t read lips so there was no telling who exactly the person goading him on was- probably a flat-assed groupie who didn’t take much convincing to smile for the camera.

Just as it was getting especially hot and heavy, the young couple realized during their amorous attentions the angle of their shot was cutting their heads off. Gordon’s mistress- sorry, mister-of-the-night clambered over to correct this grievous error, lifting it up towards his face. And the tape ended. 

His Super-8 only managed to record about 3 minutes at a time while Stingo ‘claimed’ he did it for hours at a time (weren’t you supposed to talk to a doctor about that sort of thing?), he could only imagine what kind of debauched tableau he was missing out on. No, wait, stop. Bad brain! Stewart casually sent himself into a panic.

Unbelievable. Sting stole his videocam to make a sex tape??? What else had that prick been doing with his shit!? You had something to do with this, he shot daggers at the doll on the floor. Fess up, who is it. I can see it in your eyes, you saw everything, just sat there and watched you pervert. Sally merely smiled back gormless. “...Come here, we’re gonna get to the bottom of this… Unless Sting’s the bottom. Then the top of things… Cut the Gordian knot.” He sighed heavily flopping back in his chair, “Yes, I know you’re made of plastic. Just shut up and keep your eyes forward.”

 

Rewinding the tape for a fifth time, Sherlock pushed a hand through his thick curls, conferring back to Watson who too had Stingo’s ghastly grundle seared into their corneas forever. He’d memorized just about every inch of the musician’s body, cheeks flushing at his strong hands’ gentle caress, his own idly echoing their motion. Not so much ashamed as finding himself jerking off to another man, but _Him_. Just think, if Stewart were to die right now, the coroners would find his last moments, ogling his bandmate’s pasty English ass. Sure, there were worse ways to die, but he couldn’t think of any until Andy stepped onto the bus and uttered, “ _Is that the projector from the lobby_?”

Stewart bolted up so fast he knocked the damn thing over babbling. “No. Yes. No. So what if I did.”

He clutched the deflated doll in front of him for modesty as Andy’s eyes gradually drifted downwards, the rip in her head now obvious. “Sally! Who did this to you?!” he gasped and looked up at Stewart mouth agape, then down at a very prominent bulge scarcely concealed by the thin rubber hide. His bewildered expression quickly changed to distaste as he scowled at him. “You _had_ to kill her didn’t you.”

For fates worse than death by over-exposure, in that moment Stewart would have died from embarrassment if humanly possible. In fact in the whirlwind of emotion that accompanied being accused of fucking your friend’s beloved blow up doll to death, he’d forgotten all about Sting and Sting’s monstrous mountain of mad flesh. Truly, it was a mixed blessing, if not a double-edged sword. No doubt the cheeky bastard was going to immediately scurry off and run his mouth about this although it was an infinitely better alternative than telling the truth. 

Stewart sulked, boring holes into the back of Andy’s head as he left in a huff, and a funny thought crept into the back of his mind. Their little shutterbug looked an awful lot like Stingo’s man of mystery. Maybe he had a thing for blondes. Go figure.


	4. Truth Hits Everybody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a modest proposal, to some. for a game where the rules aren't very clear. here's how ~~bernie~~ sting can still win.

Stewart had been acting funny all week, well funnier than usual- stranger, that was the correct phrasing; unusually quiet for one, more reflective and observant, which was a rare blessing. Sting didn’t know what had gotten into him but he was thankful for it, maybe he was dying. Pondering his own mortality. Good for him, he thought. 

He keep watching him, the drummer’s intense stare tracking him around as if he was trying to solve a puzzle but what on earth did it have to do with him, he’d never know. Impenetrable, that was another good one, hard to get anything in or out of that thick skull. All pointed commentary aside, the American, by way of Lebanon was sharper than he gave him credit, and he had to wonder what was it that’d enraptured him, for if he’d simply been up to his typical quirks, there wouldn’t have been this eerie silence between them. 

Whatever it was, Sting broke first. “What’s been up with you lately?” 

“Hm?” Stewart looked up from his breakfast, a spread of newspapers and magazines piled up on the tablecloth around him, having made rounds this morning to the stands and came back with an armful and a liter of fresh orange juice which while the others didn’t really read the papers as religiously, they certainly appreciated that. Food on the road was inconsistent at best, at least English life had indoctrinated them to lousy cooking, so when a decent meal came their way it was all around cause for celebration. This morning those who rose before the crack of noon had prepared a spread of fresh treats from the local markets and cafes- plenty of pastries, fruit, meats, cheeses, eggs, so on and so on so on- call him ungrateful but right now Sting really had a craving for some beans on toast. He helped himself to a cup of coffee instead, not quite home but the grit at the bottom was close enough to warm those cockles. 

“You been actin’ all strange, starey ‘n real quiet. Somethin’ up with you, cos if it’s something I did spit it out and let’s get over it okay. I’m not used to you like this.” Very smooth, very smooth Gord. 

Oh. Should he tell him? It wasn’t _Stewart’s_ problem, per se, but he still felt guilty for some reason. He’d watched it so intently, watching him, dredged it to the forefront of his mind, images superimposed upon the man in front of him. Somehow he thought he could solve whatever was going on here too if he just stayed focused, waiting for some elusive little detail that would set everything into place. People were harder than that. Stingo was notoriously challenging. He’d probably figure Stewart out in a matter of minutes, no amount of good old-fashioned psychological warfare ever really made anything of him as a boy: heart on your sleeve, drool on your shirt. 

“I’ve got some questions,” he began, looking back down at his paper, expression inscrutable. “Have you been messing with my stuff again?” “Messing with your- Really? Is that what this is all about!?” “-The other night I was looking for my camera and I found it out of its bag, sitting with Andy’s stupid doll-” 

“Rest in peace.”

“Shut the fuck up, I found it sitting out on the bus, and the tape was full,” he trained his gaze back on him, pinning him down like a specimen as Sting suddenly felt very small. 

He folded the newspaper and sat it on the table leaning back in his seat stretching his back a moment as he interrogated him. “Now of course ever the inquisitive lad I had to see what exactly was on the damn thing,” he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, “And what should I find but little old you, posing and preening with your peacock out.”

“It was Andy’s idea!” Sting blurted, catching them both off guard. Staring slightly agape at one another. 

“I-”

“ _Our_ Andy?”

If he had any hunch to go on- it still seemed far fetched. “You think you know a guy… Excuse me if I’m slow to the pitch but, first I find out you have no respect for my personal property, then that you’re into blokes, and now that Andy of all people is your co-conspirator?”

“Well, a little more than that,” Sting shrugged understating, “I mean we’ve been at this for a while now, just slipped up I guess. Honestly I didn’t know I should have been covering my tracks.”

“Wait,” Stewart confronted him, “So are you and Andy like friends with benefits?”

“Oh there are tons of great benefits to being friends with me,” Sting replied disarmingly, “-Dental, paid vacations…”

“I thought Andy was _straight_. I thought you were straight too once upon a time though I’ll admit I had my doubts.” 

“Think of it more as extracurricular study, I was, curious, about some things and turns out he was too.”

“Haven’t you ever heard curiosity killed the cat?”

“ _Satisfaction brought him back_.”

“Touche.”

Stewart sharply ran his hands through his hair taking everything in now that he had his puzzle piece he didn’t know was the one he’d been looking for. Sting masked his anxiety, quietly addressing his coffee, waiting for Stewart to collect himself. If he stayed he could still have control over the situation, not that it’d stop the nervy bastard from looking for answers in other places. Nervy bastard glanced about and lit a cigarette, inhaling then letting it rest between his long, thin fingers. “How long has this been going on.”

“For an older man he really doesn’t have all those hang-ups about sex, being part of that generation of free-love hippies who practically paved the way for deviants like me. Our relationship doesn’t extend outside of the bedroom, or the park, if were toying with exhibitionism,” he carried on, “He was more open to experimentation.” 

“Than who, your wife- she doesn’t know about this does she? Is infidelity fine and dandy as long as it’s the fairer sex?”

“We can’t be everything to everyone, beyond a soulmate- an elusive figure who fulfills the multiplicity of one’s loves and desires between the heart and the mind, “he philosophized evasively. “You know, you intrigued me the moment we met- even if that chemistry turned out to be more combustive than I was prepared for. _As_ caustic as you may be, what can I say, it sparked something more than a passing curiosity in me.” 

“Fire… Desire… At least that explains why you’d always get boners while we wrestled,” Stewart contemplated with a heavy brow. 

Sting was turning lobster red balling his fists as the conversation was back in Stewart’s court in time for him to take the upper hand again. Here he was cracking wise while Sting confessed his contentious attraction. How the hell was he supposed to react to this? He just wanted to have breakfast and Prick decides to stab him repeatedly in the stomach. Honestly Stewart thought he was handling this well, given things. No swearing, no broken cups. Of course, it had to be hard on Sting too, admitting he was twice the pervert they knew him to be, truth took its toll on people. 

“So why are you telling me this? Were you just waiting for the right moment to tell me or are we having a change of heart here? Should I consider this a personal invitation to turn this ass-disaster of a band into an even bigger cock up? You don’t _seriously_ think I’d want _you_ do you?”

His words stung, but he had been careful to have ever gotten his hopes up in the first place. Seems like Andy had been the safer bet afterall, if lacking that fire, that could so easily turn on you as turn you on. There was something real there, he knew it, he’d seen it in those moments between all the stress and fighting. He had to have shared it, in some extent, not just the product of wishful thinking, he knew it. Well. What would he lose if he probed further anyways, not much, he’d already sacrificed his secret for the opportunity, with that out of the way. A nod was a good as a wink to a blind horse. 

“It really is a pity you know,” he began with a defeated sigh, eyes knowing, “I’d always pegged you as more of an adventurous spirit…”

And that got him. Stewart narrowed his eyes in a pouting sneer. “...What are you trying to get at?” 

“I’m just a bit disappointed is all, have you never tried, never even wondered? For one with so much joie de vivre, to not pursue one’s curiosity simply because someone told you it was wrong.” 

Perhaps he was putting it on a little strong, that he’d just piss him off instead of teasing him to action. Americans were so confusingly conservative about the matters of sex- no he knew he’d seen it in him before, absolutely. With that much sexual tension running through them like a live wire, it seemed like all he had to do was reach out and grab it. Just once, it could drive him insane but at least he’d have company. Bastard. _God why couldn’t this be easy_? 

Easy wasn’t fun! He was fun, there was no denying that, if just one thing. In the end, it was just supposed to be a bit of fun. He wasn’t going to throw a tantrum if he didn’t get what he wanted- something for the boy with everything- but he’d certainly give it a good sulk. No mention of it to Andy of course, though he’d understand being someone’s second choice. 

There was a long pause, Stewart working things out behind his eyes, then a smirk popped up in the corner of his mouth, having come to his own decision. “God, it’s funny to see you so desperate, really? Disappointed… You sound like Daddy. Try again when you’re willing to offer honey Stingo, if I’m going to play your game we’re going to use my rules, and maybe, maybe I'll think about it.” 

And he got up from the table, tucked his paper under his arm, and left. Just like that. Still, a challenge was better than a no, he hadn’t expected him to give so easily, he just let them know they were playing a dangerous game. That he had a few tricks of his own! Sting smiled, shaking his head, it didn’t really matter, let him have his way. None of it _really_ mattered in the end, as long as he still could win.


	5. Love Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'stewart...............your eyes are like big pools of milk with moss floating in them....... you give me the weirdest boner' 'your legs are two hams' 'loveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee gordon'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated on the last bit but it beats having to actually write a heart felt letter. 
> 
> Daffodil- new beginnings, uncertainty  
> Columbine- foolishness  
> Citronella- homosexual love  
> Fennel- cuckoldry  
> Thank god they're dumbasses.

“Ah there you are old chap- working on a new song?” Andy saw himself in traipsing towards the figure hunched over his desk. Scribbling away, haltingly, he would stop and start again every few seconds or so. No response. 

He stepped closer idly picking up a page, giving it a once over, brows arching in amusement, “Love letters? Oh my, must be a special girl.”

Sting snappishly snatched the paper back from him and thoughtlessly crumpled it, tossing the wad at the bin where it impotently bounced off with the others. “Oh my… _Very special_.”

Eventually giving in, he brusquely turned around in his seat and glared questioningly at the man in the doorway. “What do you want Andy, can’t you see I’m busy?” 

“Oh,” he sheepishly looked down now, “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to take a break, relax ‘n slip away for a few minutes-”

“ _I’m not interested_.”

Sting was not in a good mood, but then again when was he ever. Took himself so damn seriously some times, the tortured poet, when they all knew damn well the only one torturing him was himself. If he were ever happy the miserable bastard probably wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

“Just tell er you’re a rockstar, always seems to work with me,” Andy chortled. This rough draft ricocheted off his face.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Sting sneered, doubling down on his progress attempting to block his unwanted guest out. “This, isn’t some random groupie skank ready to throw herself at my feet like you like.”

“Careful with those barbs, I never see you complaining,” he dropped his shoulders, “Listen, if you’d like some help… I’ll help. I’m not Keats but I know a thing or two about love, easily four or five about lust, this girl, whatshelike?” He propped an arm on the back of his chair.

He had to think a minute, tapping his chin with a pen. “Um, tall, slender, blonde… green no brown no green eyes, great smile... congenial, charming, cheeky.”

Andy made a grand two-handed cupping gesture. 

“Err, no I’m afraid not.”

“Damn shame, oh well to each his own.” 

Gordon had little heart to correct Andy upon his assumptions, it was probably for the best. While it might seem hypocritical to a degree given their relationship, this obvious crush was a contentious point of weakness he was not keen on revealing. It would’ve been so much easier if it had been a discreet fuck but damn the prick for turning it into a whole debacle as usual- forcing him to ‘court’ him, fucking ridiculous. Insensitive bastard won’t even appreciate the effort, and if this turned out to be some elaborate game after all, why couldn’t he have the decency to simply turn him down?

It was slowly eating away at him, this frustrated desire to beat him, to win him. That this was his chance at finally forcing him to submit and scoring an indisputable notch in their perpetually exhausting wrestle for dominance. He wasn’t entirely blameless himself in fomenting this obsession of his, he could have turned down this proposal and moved on. For all he knew Stewart was straight after all, it wasn’t unlikely- Sting had never really noticed him paying any other men much attention, granted he didn’t himself. 

Before he could question whether this were merely about control or some deeper desire, Andy decided to offer his assistance, leaving his bandmate little respite to recenter himself on his work. Brandishing his fingers, cupping them towards the window for some divine inspiration Very Not Keats orated his doggerel in an impossible Lanc brogue. “I find myself in some sorry state writing to you, I beg you find some mercy in reading this. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, I cannot dream without the thought of you in mind. Til I have you by my side, until I relinquish myself betwixt your creamy thighs I am incomplete, I am barely a man. This… ache... drives my… soul, to madness- and tell me love, would you not love a mad man? So akin to madness is my passion that surely I will perish without you. My emerald-eyed beauty, j'ai mal.. pour... toi,” he bared his teeth, eyes wrenched shut in anguish and brought his fist to his chest. “Arghhhh.”

“Good god are you done yet,” Sting grumbled. 

“Pretty good huh?” 

“As an emetic maybe,” he took a pained breath scrapping another paper after the first sentence, “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but I think you’d be more help somewhere not here.”

“Oh.” Andy’s grin disappeared, “Alright, I can see where I’m not wanted… I could go grab Stewart if you want to bounce ideas of h-”

“Fuckssakeanyonebuthim.”

“Hm, yeah now that you mention it he’s not exactly the man of words is he.”  
“Andy?”

“Yes’m?”

“ _Didn’t you just say you were leaving_?” Sting glared penetratingly. 

“There’s that winning personality again, ah yes, all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile” Andy wagged as he found his feet moving not of their own accord, “Just be yourself!”

Stepping out and delicately closing the door behind him he tutted to himself, “Dear oh dear, old boy needs more help than I thought. Fortunately I don’t give a tit what he thinks, just don’t let it be said I never did anything for the bastard,” and set off on this good-spirited fool’s errand. 

 

While Miles may have heatedly argued that days off were frivolous, entirely avoidable expenses, at the behest of everyone else, having pointed out the band’s growing success and reciprocal finances, today was a much needed break in an otherwise tight and taxing tour schedule. Stewart, the band’s and his own biggest fan, claimed they ‘made it’ every few months or so whenever they hit some new watermark or another but not everyone was naturally equipped with such unbridled optimism and energy. Still, some of that was what kept them going, god knows it could have kept a small power plant going. Today though, they could all relax, or run twenty kilometers, or lock themself in their room all day with a phone glued to their ear working, what the hell, whatever humps your camel. Andy, personally was indulging himself in a proper meal for a change. 

Kim sat across from him nursing a beer and the local meat and two veg, what appeared to be a delicious piece of duck, not that he was complaining about his own. It was nice, sitting down and really taking in all those little things you seemed to forget existed when you lived in more or less of a blur. They could have a leisurely conversation and let food get a little cold, watching the people on the sidewalk living their own private (though usually terminally boring) lives and remembering what it was like not to be yourself. The weather today was also gorgeous, and it would’ve been a real damn shame had they had to spend it hustling about another dim club or cooped up on a bus. His thoughts drifted to Sting, holed up in his room writing himself into a corner on a day like this. 

Ringing a finger around the foamy lip of his glass he mulled, “I have this quandary, if you don’t mind weighing in your opinions on it. You see I have this friend who’s into this girl-”

“Your _friend_ right,” Kim smirked giving him a knowing look as he took a sip. 

Andy flattened his hands on the table in protest, “No I’m serious!” Leaning in he whispered with the gravity of this secret, “Listen, I’ll say who it is but he’s kind of embarrassed about it. You have to promise not to tell anyone.” 

Kim sneered disbelievingly but gave in. “Okay I promise! You can trust me, have I ever let you down?”

“Alright…” he inhaled, “It’s Sting.”

“Cor, really?” 

“Yes! He looks like he’s driving himself mad about it too, it’s pretty bad. I offered to help but, eh he’s in one of his moods. You wouldn’t know what to do would you?” 

“About him? God I don’t know, I’d say just leave him be.”

“Nah about the girl, ‘s tryin’ to win her over. Hard to get or whatnot. Something tells me poetry’s not going to cut it.” 

“Hm.” He sat back and held a contemplative hand to his chin. “Did you tell him about makin’ sure ya eat her out?” 

“Yes! I did!” 

“...Flowers, a nice thoughtful gift that shows you really care about this person. There’s a whole language of love to them, every one has a different meaning. He’d eat that shit up. I’m sure there’s plenty of florists around here and I can probably think of one or two back in London if that’s the case.”

Kim nodded confidently at his addition, Andy giving it some rumination. “Hm, well I was planning on going about ‘n doing some shopping, you know, some new clothes, something for the wife. I could pick up a bouquet for our hopeless romantic if he’s going to waste his day away locked indoors.”

“That’s awful kind of you,” Kim noted, “Anything for me Big Spender?”

Andy glowered but let him off with an amicable wave. “Maybe if you take it to him, I wouldn’t want to take your credit. Plus last I spoke to loverboy he looked like he were about to take my head off. Maybe see if you can talk some sense into him, chances are he’ll be over her in a week.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” he chuckled, polishing off the last of his glass and sliding it towards Andy decisively. “But I do my best.”

 

Face buried in a barricade of daffodils, fennel, citronella, and columbine, Kim strode into the hotel, plowing right into somebody. “Careful!” they shouted, holding out their hands to catch the flowers. Kim’s eyes bulged as the water from the plastic vase sloshed backwards onto his shirt and all down his clothes. 

The two of them clutching the stems peeked around the side gathering their wits, Danny eyeing his dripping clothes and bewildered expression. “Flowers? For me, you shouldn’t have.” 

“Not for you,” Kim began hastily shoving them back in the vase as he shuffled inside, “They’re Andy’s- well they’re for Sting but Andy gave them to me to give them to him, from him… for a girl. For Sting to give to a girl. But it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Oh a secret.”

“...Shit.”

“Don’t worry… They’re lovely flowers. He’s really got it for some local girl? We’ll be gone by tomorrow morning,” Danny scratched his head stepping aside. 

“Yeah, figure I should talk to him but do you think so? I don’t wanna make matters worse ‘n plus well Andy said it was supposed to be a secret- he’s terribly embarrassed by the whole thing. Gordie’s a sensitive soul, oh what if she turns him down even with the flowers and the letter and everything?”

“Then he can write a song about it,” Danny clucked. 

 

In their travels from afternoon to evening, the ‘secret’ trickled down the chain of communication throughout the crew like some reckless game of telephone. Nothing ended up getting distorted way out of detail, beyond the little anyone knew, but it seemed like everybody and their brother had their two cents to offer. Hard to believe but All of them, experts in the rituals of love. Sting should be so lucky he had so many doyens of romance to consult at whim should he incline to ever leave his ivory tower. Flowers were a bit much, they agreed, but a good start.

“You should really get to know her first, let her choose. Find out what she really likes and what she cares about- moments together are the most precious thing you can give to anybody. We’re here for a good time, not a long time, I would know.”

“Just tell her how you feel! Be honest, you don’t need any of these silly things, if it’s really meant to be she’ll understand.”

“You know these girls, probably won’t accept anything less than him getting down on one knee ring in hand.”

“ _Isn’t Sting married_?” One Miles Copeland perceptively pointed, “ _With a girlfriend_?”

 

Head buried in his arms, the poet groaned, carpet all around him blanketed with a fresh coat of papers. He’d successfully pissed the day away and was still at a loss for words, periodically there’d be a nervous knock at the door and yet another person would be there attempting to console him or suggest oblique strategies to winning the ‘girl of his dreams’. And every time his face would just grow red as a beet before he browbeat them back. The flowers had been nice at least, though Sting noticed a note attached ‘To belief in true love’ on one side ‘Now fuck my ass’ on the other. This raised some concerned eyebrows towards the door after Kim squeaked back out. 

He barely noticed the figure darkening his door as the sunset reflected off the patient measure of the clock on the wall. “Knock knock,” they spoke, the smirk audible in their voice. 

Sting whipped around, reflexively covering his work with his forearms as the whole desk rattled with the motion. Looking about as smug as a bug in a rug on drugs, Stewart leaned against the frame eyes half-lidded surveying the waste he’d laid, evidently tickled with the sheer effort as he coquettishly posed a finger against his chin. “All this, just for little old me?” 

Tight-lipped, Sting merely stared at him, nothing to say for himself save for what little he’d written. Glancing about himself he inhaled trying to stomach his butterflies (wait _butterflies_? Good lord what was becoming of him…) and he offered his diffident proposal. Stewart smiled and graciously accepted. Sting cleared his throat looking down. “Sorry the flowers are a bit much… they’re from Andy.”

“Well that was nice of him,” Stewart twisted a stem between his fingers thoughtfully. 

“Yeah well he also thought this was for some bird,” Sting awkwardly smiled rubbing the back of his head, “Kinda got out of hand.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

“Oh- And there’s this,” he fumbled around for a letter in the flotsam and jetsam, eventually uncrumpling one and smoothing it against the table before handing it to him. “So I was wondering would you like to maybe get dinner... together… I heard you like pasta.”

“Now what little birdie told you that?” Stewart looked over the letter eyes laughing. 

And wordlessly, for once, he leaned over to Sting, carefully, and kissed him. 

“I would love to. _Thank you_.” 

 

Don’t think me unkind,  
If words are hard to find.  
They’re only checks I’ve left unsigned  
From the banks of chaos in my mind.

And when their eloquence escapes me,  
Their logic ties me up and wraps me. 

De do do do de da da da  
Is all I want to say to you.  
De do do do de da da da  
They’re meaningless but all that’s true.


	6. Fiction Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting regales Andy of his exploits. Truth however, is more frictious than fiction. (Friends to Lovers to Enemies)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took the title from a bootleg I liked the name of. Some of the fic ended up sorta writing itself (not in the fun way, more of the frustrated and fed up way). The next part will hopefully be more fun, at least for me. ANGST. *smack* ANGST. *smack* ANGST.

Packing up and relocating one’s entire life became rather pedestrian after a decade or so living on the road. By this point Andy could probably do it from a dead sleep and somnambulate himself to his next gig, sleeping off the night before in the back of a van with a gig bag as a pillow. Theirs was a tidy, efficient unit, although they’d recently caved into enlisting new rookies into the force. Each of their own was a fairly seasoned musician, professional, apart from their periodic... disagreements there was very little trouble really. Still none of them had known each other prior to the group and all three came from arguably very different backgrounds, so in idle stretches such as these from one town to the next, they tended to keep to themselves: reading, listening to music as they stared out the window, maybe talk about the weather talk about a movie they saw. Wasn’t like you could leave the room if things got heated. At least his jokes went over better than the others’, even if sometimes they just shook their heads muttering. 

Today going through those motions was a little more of a challenge than usual, having perhaps overindulged in ‘just a bit of shopping’. He looked like an albatross with his arms outstretched, bags hanging off of each wing like plumage as he waddled from the hotel ready to take flight. Standing around waiting for someone to rush up to him and say ‘oh let me get those for you’ didn’t work out as planned so he and his dignity would have to make this migration alone unfortunately. Slowly but steadily Andy proceeded, until spotting a subject attempting to slink onto the bus unnoticed, huge sunglasses poorly obscuring an unmistakable face he brightened upon recognizing and jostled forward to catch up with him. 

“Sting! How’d it go? Oh stop trying to hide, you’re not getting mobbed, this isn’t A Hard Day’s Night. No one gives a fuck who you are.” 

The singer found himself cornered against the side of the vehicle by his assumed mentor in the ways of ‘love’ beaming eagerly to see if his lessons took. “Um, yeah it didn’t really work out,” he strained, “Can we continue this inside?” 

“Sorry,” he apologized catching his slipping bags and letting him up the stairs, “Of course.”

Stewart was already onboard, taking a kip in the back, no doubt exhausted from some late night partying with the locals at the discotheque or some other. In his lap was a book he’d started reading but barely made any further headway into before zonking out again. The hyperkinetic kid looked almost sweet like this, vulnerable, long dark lashes resting against his cheeks and angelic golden curls fallen across his softened expression. Ah, he’d let him rest. Andy shoved his things under the seat in front of him and sat down beside Sting, eager to hear the rest of his story. He clasped his hands between his knees, listening intently, “So what happened? I’m sorry to hear but, that’s life I guess, you win you lose and it still goes on- I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” He gave him a reconcilliary pat on the back which Sting stiffly accepted. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes I got your note.” He leaned back letting his head hit the headrest. Sting let his body sink into the seat, legs open, hands on either knee, back firmly against the cushion for support as he gathered his bearings. Inhaling a deep breath as he drummed his fingertips on the loose linen of his trousers, Sting began his story. 

“So last night I went on a date. Fancy restaurant, I picked it out. I don’t know, wanted to impress - her.” He caught himself at the last moment, breath hitching as he considered, if only for a second, telling Andy the truth. He out of anybody would understand, at least, was in no position to say anything about it. Then again it was bad enough just considering the implications between them individually, they didn’t need a Fleetwood Mac on their hands when they already had a Kinks to reckon with. If he had any plans of being honest with the other man he should have done it before his silence welcomed him to run off with a fiction romance of his own making. 

“There I stood, waiting underneath the neon marquis, flowers in hand, ‘Just look for the badly-dressed Englishman sweating bullets at the door’. My date arrives just as gorgeous as I’d met her, she could show up wearing nothing at all and still look phenomenal.”

“Still? I for one think you look very fetching in your birthday suit,” Andy pursed his lips as the rest of the crew folded themselves into the mix.

“Oh shut up you know what I mean,” Sting shushed him and continued.

 

It was hard to dress up really when your entire wardrobe consisted of whatever you’d bothered to bring along in your suitcase, not that some of what he did have wasn’t nice. After all they were ‘post punk’ not punk per se, it wasn’t all leather and safety pins, they could have a few dress shirts to wear over the raggedy concert tees. Sting wasn’t a punk, nor had he ever really been one but one had to keep up appearances. Had it been someone other than Stewart, maybe he would have made more of an effort, but tonight it was just enough to look respectable for his reservation. Wetting his fingers and running them through his hair in front of a mirror and rolling up the sleeves on his blazer. Putting on the good combat boots, his Sunday best. 

While they easily could have walked together, Sting told Stewart just to meet him there, leaving each of them time to get ready. For Stewart, ever concerned about how people saw him to change three times before leaving his room only to run back in and change again, and for Sting to powder his nose and take a shot of courage to numb the painful evening he expected ahead of him. When they arrived though, in his insecurity’s defense, the drummer did clean up awfully well; Sting had to admit he was quite handsome, although tended to resemble a particularly intelligent horse. 

“Hey.”

“Long time no see, didn’t we used to play in a band together?” Stewart pointed. 

“The Bay City Rollers. Reservation’s indoors.” Sting headed inside. This managed to get a giggle out of Stewart and he jogged in after him, the clack of his boots muffled by the lush wine-colored carpet as he did. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust, the candlelit chandeliers paling against the bright signage directly outside, think experience not cafeteria luncheonette. Meanwhile Sting addressed the maître d'. “Sumner, table for two, somewhere private please.”

Stewart raised an eye but said nothing to the host herself, following after. “Ashamed to be seen with me?” he hushedly asked. 

Sting stared back over his shoulder, “No I just want to sit somewhere quiet come off it. You better not be like this all night, how long are we going to play this anyways?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what?”

“To convince me you’re worth it.”

 _To convince me you really want it_. It was unclear what anyone wanted really. What Stewart _did_ know was that the purpose of the game was to play it until you discovered the players’ intent. Less of a game and more of a moral filibuster, the rules of which revealed themselves as needed. 

“Can’t we just get this over with and sort out any feelings later?” Sting sat down across from him in a secluded corner, far from any prying eyes. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for that opportunity.”

“Mr. Sumner! I’m not that kind of girl,” Stewart gasped mockingly. 

“Fine fine alright, we’ll play it your way.” Sting relented opening a menu in front of himself and sinking further into his seat until the waiter came. 

“You don’t know how much I love hearing those words.” Stewart grinned that face-splitting crocodile smile.

 

“You know at first I was in a panic yesterday cos I thought I had lost her number, until, and luck should have it, I’d scribbled it on the back of the very paper I’d torn from my notebook. As I gave her the bouquet I’d been hidin’ behind like a doylem at his first dance I could feel it burning a hole in my pocket.”

Andy leaned in concerned, “Did she like the flowers?”

“What? Oh, yeah, loved em. Thought they were very sweet, had the waiter bring us a vase soon as we sat down.”

“Kim-”

“I know Kim told me everything. And from what I know you still owe him a beer. I don’t owe you anything, this is a gift, that was a favor. 

“But I trust you got my note.”

“Fuck’s sake yes I got your bleedin’ note. Not to make excuses but you’ve caught me at a bad time and I’m sure our friends here would agree. First opportunity I get, I’ll see to this misgiving, swear.”

Andy opened his mouth to speak again, Sting clenched his jaw and held out his hands, Andy set down his finger and shut his mouth, glumly glancing out the window hand on his cheek. “What is this girl’s name anyways, should it _come up_ later.”

Sting blanked, staring back, nothing going on behind blue eyes. “Um… Actually you know her English wasn’t very good, and well my French leaves much to be desired. Some details may have gotten lost in translation-”

“Unbelievable.” Andy’s brows shot into his hairline laughing incredulously, “You never even learned her name!? You’ve been acting like this is the girl of your dreams and you didn’t even-”

“Stefanie.” Sting exclaimed knowing he’d immediately regret this decision. At least… it wasn’t Closette or Wyndeaux? 

“Move on fast?” Andy stated flatly, “I should consider myself privileged that you deign to remember mine, well except when you call me Stewart, but that I can understand. Sometimes I confuse you for my dog too. It’s a simple mistake, you have so much in common.”

 

Rule 1. Communication.

"Et que voudraient les messieurs pour les boissons et les apéritifs?" their waitress smiled pouring water from the carafe on the table. 

Sting folded his menu shut and set it down. "Une ... bouteille de ton rouge préféré de moins de cinq francs et la salade caprese. Je pense que uh j'ai besoin de plus minutes pour choisir une entrée.”

“Ça va, je vais laisser un menu avec vous. Et êtes-vous prêt monsieur?”

Stewart scratched his cheek and cocked his head, “Uh ditto, peril ici. Je veux l'antipasto- actually, wait you guys do charcuterie here?” he glanced at Sting, “ _Can I_ \- I’m gonna get both- sorry, les deux. Mes excuses, Americano.”

The waitress’s expression changed from slight confusion to enthusiasm as she realized and beamed at them. “Oh! Very good, let me get those right away sirs!” 

Stewart returned his wide straight, white smile at her as she scurried off, Sting shaking his head faintly. “You know she’s only being like that because she thinks you’re going to tip her. You’re not a real American anyways, how long’d you spend over there again?”

“I’m American by birth, isn’t that enough? A couple years, in college, but you’re right that’s it, Andy’s probably spent just as much time over there as I have. Were you not going to tip?”   
He shrugged slightly to Stewart’s disapproval. “Well if we’re dutching it.”

“I know just how much you make and we’re not _dutching_ royalties-”

“You _have_ to bring this up,” Sting growled rubbing his temple.

“I’m not! You’re the one who wanted to do this, I figured you were paying. I’m not trying to get anything out of it, other than a free lunch, but don’t think just because you bought me dinner I owe you anything,” he asserted. “I’ll tip, it’s diplomatic.” 

“Here’s a tip for you, don’t bring up work when we’re not working. It’s a real turn off,” Sting scowled but his expression quickly softened when their waitress returned, pouring each of them a very generous glass of wine and setting a few plates onto the tablecloth. “ _Bon appétit.” “Bone ape tit to you too_.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, so what does turn you on?” Stewart reached across the table to steal the olive off of Sting’s salad only to receive a smack on the wrist.

He held up a finger while he swallowed his mouthful of food and eked out a reply. “Women, for starters,” he chuffed succinctly, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Stewart knitted his brows and gritted his teeth, more than concerned now his mind began to explore the possibilities. Afterall, he’d said he’d been exploring them himself as of late. There was no telling just what he and Andy got up to once he’d opened that door. “Well, I have to now, but you’re right, not in front of the waitress. In honor of the fragile shred of decency you have left.”

Sting gave him a humorless smirk and raised his glass. “To decency.” 

Clinking their drinks as per custom, each took a sip, Sting setting his aside and commenting insouciantly, “I’ve been meaning to try exhibitionism. The only issue stopping me from bending you over the table right here is well, all the crumbs.” 

The poor waitress rushed over towards their table again as Stewart loudly choked on his wine, coughing and gasping for air. As he managed to clear his throat, she backed off. Sting, who had been wearing a white shirt, was just glad he hadn’t done a spit take. It wasn’t his fault he was a prude, so, that’d be a hard pass on that one.

 

Rule 2. Kindness. 

“Despite a little bit of a language barrier, once the wine started flowing, the conversation starting flowing more freely as well. She told me she studied nursing at the college near here but dreamed of becoming a famous model. When I told her I had been a model before she laughed, it wasn’t a mean laugh, I think, but just surprised perhaps. I did not mention the commercial I bleached my hair for, pretending to be a ‘punk’. If she would have cared she probably would have recognized me when we met, I kind of like that anonymity though. Can’t see myself dating a fan for that reason, some stranger who’s convinced themself they already know you, when it isn’t really that way at all.”

“They never aired that commercial did they,” Andy brooded twisting the ends of his more or less naturally blonde locks. 

“No. Did’n keep my bit part in that punk film with the Sex Pistols either, gratefully.”

“Yeah you’d mentioned something about it, why was that?” 

Sting paled slightly, “Uh, no reason, length I guess. I just did a lousy job, not all publicity is good publicity. This girl could argue otherwise though, while being a musician apparently didn’t impress her much, as soon as I mentioned my short-lived modeling career, she wanted to know if I could set her up with all these companies in Paris and London and Milan. ‘Call them up and send a photograph, I can’t say we’re on a first name basis personally, but it’s worth a try.’”

“Having answered with a bit of a let down, I asked her about herself, ‘surely not just another pretty face’, granted that girl had lips that could suck the meow off a cat- I could think of a better place to spread them than a centerfold.” he underhandedly confessed of his bandmate, resident thorn in his side and ache in his balls. Stewart would make a good girl, he contemplated, if he squinted. A lot. And was drunk. Very drunk. 

 

Sting watched the dark red ripples swirl in his cup, only peeking across the table briefly at his date inhaling his tagliatelle with a fervor that both disgusted and awed. How the hell was he this thin, where was he putting all of it? This was like those giant snakes in the Amazon which swallowed a deer whole then spent the rest of the month digesting it for when food got scarce. If the bill was anything what he expected that would be very soon too. His own meal he poked at distractedly but wasn’t terribly interested in eating. “So… What do we do?” 

“What do you mean what do we do,” Stewart stopped for air, a stray noodle hanging from his mouth. “What would you normally do on a date, ask me about myself.”

“What is there to ask you, I’ve known you for almost three years now?”

“Yeah but, do we really talk?”  
“Yes we do, once you start talking you never stop. I know all about your childhood in the middle east, I’ve met your family, your brothers are practically my own by now. I know about Sonja and Sven- how does she feel about this, assuming it’s not some sort of cruel joke to trick me into doing you favors.”

Stewart shrugged nonchalantly, crossing his arms on the table. “It’s sort of an open relationship, free love y’know, all that hippy shit. We don’t live normal lives, we’re not normal people- it’s... different.”

“And are we different?”

“I don’t know, are we a thing, should I mention this to her? Do you want me to do that?” 

“No! And we’re not,” Sting withdrew. 

“Do you want us to be?” There was an earnestness to Stewart’s eyes as he asked him. Even though it felt that way, he wasn’t the one proposing this and making Sting do this shit. He knew Stewart wanted it, though he wouldn’t say it. And Stewart knew Sting wanted it, though he wouldn’t show it. Maybe it was just passing curiosity.

“I… don’t know.” Sting glanced back down at his lips and his expression changed to a grimace. “You’ve… you’ve got-” Stewart pursed his lips trying to figure out what he was referring to and hastily wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. As his train of thought left the station, Stewart resumed attacking his pasta, twisting a fork around in it then unexpectedly holding it up, offering it to Sting. He wasn’t exactly sure how to react, he didn’t really want to eat his dinner but he knew he’d get all in a huff if he rejected him so he went ahead feeling a little silly to be fed by somebody. 

“No no, not like that, you’re supposed to slurp them- like this,” he demonstrated, shoveling them in and sucking obnoxiously. Eventually Sting sighed and acquiesced to his delight, not noticing the gap between them closing as they did so until the other man was inches from his face, sucking the same noodle (there was no way this wasn’t some kind of double entendre). And in that moment of realization, he leaned in gave him a big messy kiss before he could push him away. Gotcha.

“I take it you’ve never seen Lady and The Tramp.” Stewart laughed, Sting busy performatively cleaning out his mouth with his napkin and making faces. “So is it a yes or no?”

Sting glared, seething, “Never fucking do that in public again.” 

Stewart’s playful grin disappeared, voice heavy with disappointment, “I thought you liked it when I acted cute, I’m just trying to have fun with you. No need to be a sour old bitch about it...”

“I don’t, not here.” His face was burning, some paroxysm of rage, embarrassment, arousal, and confusion, Stewart, staring back hurt. “You asked me if I’m ashamed to be seen like this with you, yeah, yeah I am. I said I wanted you, I didn’t mean like this. I don’t know what you’ve been imagining but I _don’t_ love you and I’m not going to.” 

He frowned softly, hands in his lap, not the intense brooding scowl he put on sometimes, playing the tough guy, cool and impenetrable. This was the look of defeat. He weakly shook his head in disbelief blinking hard, “No, you’re just saying that. I’m not saying we gotta like, fall in love ‘n get married have kids live happily ever after it’s just, it has to mean something, it’s you.” 

Sting took a deep breath taking this in, speechless in surprise if this is how Stewart really felt. Here he’d been worried just days before about him reacting in disgust to such things. This, wasn’t part of the game he realized. “It’s about control,” he confessed. 

There was a long pause. Yeah, the most likely answer. Just not the one he wanted. 

“I don’t want it to be about that.” Stewart stated indifferently. “Me... ...fucking you up against the side of an wall isn’t gonna fix anything, it wouldn’t really change anything either. But if that’s what you really want- I just don’t want you to find another way to use me.”

“I’m not using you!” Sting gasped though it was probably true. Normally he’d be shocked more so by the audacity of his commentary but the reality of the situation was slightly more pressing. 

“It doesn’t feel that way.” He pushed out his chair and stood up, looming down on him. “If you change your mind though, remember this, I don’t need you to love me, but you will _never_ own me.”

And he left. 

“Enjoying the meal monsieur, would you like to see our dessert menu? We have many fine dessert wines if you and your boyfriend would like to share another bottle-”

Bastard fucking walked out. At least he’d warned he didn’t have any false pretenses of paying for his own bloody meal but he hadn’t expected him to do a runner. “Actually I’d like the cheque please if you would,” he croaked. 

“Oh no! Did ze date go badly? Je suis vraiment désolé, laissez-moi remplir votre tasse,” the waitress, he squinted at her name tag, Stefanie, fretted over him. 

He tried waving her away, ready to be done with this whole evening. “Non, non... je vais, prendre un sac. Il n'est pas mon copain, ma’am.” 

She stopped and looked down flushing deep pink, “Excusez-moi, je ne voulais pas dire, je pensais juste. S'il vous plaît pardonnez-moi pour tout malentendu…”

Sting held his head in his head swearing to himself. “ _Worth it_? The fucking balls...”

 

Rule 3. Honesty  
Rule 4. ???? Bugger all if I know.   
Rule 5. Profit!

“So it sounds like everything was going well, what happened?” Andy asked propping his chin on his curled knuckles. 

“Oh I don’t know,” Sting groused, “The more we got to talking I realized we wanted different things; she wanted a lover not a one night stand, someone she could depend on. I couldn’t lie to her, I can’t do that. She asked if we could keep in touch, I’m not sure I should. So I walked away empty handed, save for the experience and lingering longing.”

“You can’t commit to these girls,” Andy sighed sagely. “God I could do for a fag after that story.”

“We’re stuck in a metal airlock, save it for later,” Sting relaxed, spent, staring listlessly out of the window.

Andy simply leaned forward and thumped the back of one of the seats. “Hey, how long til we get there? Y’think we could pull over an’ take a pit stop?”

“It’s only a couple hours it’s not going to kill you.”

“Don’t make me turn this car around I will drive straight into a lake I promise you.”

“So much for life’s little pleasures, I’m riding with Kilometers Copeland and the Gulag Six. Just remember your promise,” he addressed Sting coyly, curling up in his seat preparing to turn in and tune out until he needed to be somebody again. 

“With friends like these...” 

“Exactly,” Andy grinned tiredly and rolled over before he could say anything more. That kind of summed it up really, what else was there to say?


	7. Once Stung Twice Shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are hard to make, but I keep making the same mistakes.

Getting the silent treatment from Stewart was a thing in its own. Sting had once said it was a blessing he ‘couldn’t sing worth a shit’ or he’d die from lack of oxygen as he’d never shut up ever again. It was hard enough to stop him once he started in the first place, last thing he needed was a personal crusade to tyrannically tirade. 

The first day was bliss, miraculous silence. He didn’t think he said two words to him. The second day was tenser, unusual but not quite uncomfortable. By the fifth he was losing his mind. 

Andy watched the singer furtively bag something, shoving crepe paper in after it, then after a second ripping it out and balling it at the trash. “Another femme fatale you’re trying to seduce?” he drawled. “Does somebody need another lesson?”

“Nah,” Sting frowned setting it aside. He exhaled and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the spiked tufts. “ ‘S for Stew.”

“Hmph. I take it you’re responsible for Sunshine’s recent laconism. Must’ve been some fight, normally you’d’ve kissed and made up by now.” 

“No… he’s just… he’ll come around.”

“You better hope. Otherwise Miles is going to be mad you broke his drum machine.”

 

Sting had spent much of the past few days trying to ply Stewart with gifts, favors, acting atypically affectionate with him, to no avail. When the drummer wasn’t avoiding him, he’d simply receive that cold hard stare. It had crossed his mind, perhaps, this was part of the game. The long con. True, he would eventually crack or lose interest and things would go back to normal, but Sting did not underestimate his ability to hold a grudge, and he still wanted him- more, now that he wanted nothing to do with him. 

Back and forth, like clockwork, like the pull of a pendulum, they would snarl and snap at each other, but they always ended up licking each other’s wounds in the end. Had this time he gone too far? His need to seize some control over the band- mostly one perpetually pugilistic percussionist was an open secret, he would have known about his motives. The methods then. He had been too harsh, too hasty. He couldn’t reject Stewart like that then tell him how he needed him in the same sentence. 

And Stewart had been right. He didn’t mean what he said. He did love him, and they told each other this all the time, he understood this. Whatever Stewart meant by it, however, whatever he meant by it in that moment… Unclear. Though the way he looked, it had been so sad. In the moment all Sting could think about was his own mess of emotions, not angry any more but it was very much the same quagmire he’d been in days before, the weight of that muck dragging him down, and sticking him to the spot. There was no escape without resolving this. To have him without owning him. To win him without giving in. To do this without….

 _Knock knock_. “You got a minute?” Sting peeked his head past the door. Stewart sat facing an empty chair, practicing rolls against the stiff cushion. He didn’t look up when he entered the room. 

“You um, played really good last night,” this was a lie. He’d felt Stewart repeatedly speeding up during songs and he’d set Truth Hits so fast Andy nearly lost where they were completely before falling apart, they’d just barely made it through that gauntlet alive and only because there’d been hardly any time to fall apart. Other than that… same as usual, he supposed. All in all pretty typical really. “I,” he gestured to the brown bag, “Wanted to give you something. Not much,” he pulled the bottle of wine out to show him before putting it back in, “Just a little token of appreciation.”

No response. After a few seconds, the rhythmic thumping and tapping filling the space between, his shoulders slumped and Sting set the present with the others lining the mirror, unopened. Either Stewart was too busy being spiteful or material shows left him terminally unimpressed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall waiting, “ _So… I was thinking_ …” 

“Did it hurt.” 

The first words he said to him in nearly a week. Fucking Copeland. Sting got angry for a second but it quickly shifted to a laugh. First words he’d said to him and nearly a week but at least he was speaking to him again. “Um yeah, I was thinking we kinda fucked up with that first… date,” he forced himself to say it, “Let me try again… on your terms. I can’t stand to see you like this, so I guess… I’m sorry, okay.”

“...”

“I said I was sorry.”

“What do you want Gordon.” Stewart spoke disinterestedly, as if Sting were nothing more than a pesky fly he wanted to shoo away. Hard to tell the difference with all that high pitched buzzing. 

“Um… forgiveness?” he raised his eyes imploring.

“Can’t have that.”

“Dammit. Then acceptance.”

“Maybe.”

“Let me make things up to you.”

“I’m listening.” Stewart still hadn’t looked at him or stopped playing, there were like fifty or something of these exercises and he saw to it for stubborness sake that he sludge through all of them _especially_ when someone was talking to him. Save for his wrists, his whole body was rigid and tensed, muscles tight and taut, quick. Like an animal ready to bolt the moment he found himself cornered. Or the predator prepared to pounce and rip his head off. 

“I want to make something work, but I don’t know how to do that. Please just tell me how, I need to know,” Sting drew a breath, prey feeling stripped of its defenses as he offered himself. “I’m willing to try for you.”

Resting his sticks in his lap, Stewart gave this gift his consideration. He gestured to the chair in front, to join him on his level. “Sit down, play with me for a minute- no songs, and no jazz either. Just- find a groove and let’s _resynchronize_ ourselves.”

It was a good place to start. Sting grabbed his bass and sat across from Stewart who was now using some thick hardcover he’d been reading as a practice pad. It wasn’t romantic, watching each other play, routine more than anything, but it was nice, not having any expectations. And intimate, finding their way around each other’s rhythms, like when they’d first met- the first time they’d ever played together. It was probably in that very moment he started falling for him, easy to say he’d never felt such a rush, no high to compare it to, and when they’d finished hot and utterly spent, they knew it. 

Now as he stared in the hazel-eyed mirror, fingertips burning from steel, he leaned in lips parted from where memory left off and the impression continued, only for Stewart to seize up at the touch. He held him at a hand’s distance, brows knitted. “ _No_.”

 _No_? “Okay,” Sting sat back with some reluctant resignation. “Do I still get a second chance though?”

As long as he was willing to try and make an effort it was worth a shot, Stewart did have to account for the fact Sting was an incorrigible dumbass. And some things took time. “Sure,” he conceded magnanimously, “But do me once shame on you, do me twice _I’ll kill ya_.” 

His friendly smile belied what felt like a genuine threat and took note of such. 

 

If for nothing else, they’d played fathoms better tonight, almost sounding like a group of competent musicians as the art monster so charitably applauded. Soaked with sweat, they stumbled offstage and tumbled out into a chilly German night, braced by the relief of moving on. “So where do you wanna go from here, the night’s still young,” Sting looped an arm over Stewart’s shoulder patting his back. 

“Let’s go to the clubs, I wanna see some local bands, grab a beer- Anders, you coming?” 

Andy balked a second, “Erm, no I was hoping for a quick dinner and turn in for an early night- you two exhaust me sometimes.”

“Oh I take pride in being exhausting, means I’m thorough,” Stewart beamed, Sting giving him a shake and shoving him away. 

“Show some respect for your elders boy,” Andy shoved him back in place and walked past as the rest of the crew filed out the theatre.

“You’re not my real dad!” 

“Stewart listen to Andy,” Miles yelled. Everything was back to usual, which meant… this. Leave the schoolmaster to deal with the class clowns, lunatics had taken over his personal asylum long before these kooks decided to add their bedlam. Taking off his glasses to rub his brow he muttered to himself, “Well shoot, and here I was getting used to the peace and quiet.”

While Stewart ran ahead to help the other guys and see if they had any interest in a long night of debauchery ahead not everyone had the same post-concert buzz he always did. Placing a hand on Sting’s shoulder, Andy lead him aside for a second to speak before they went their separate ways. He cleared his throat, “Thanks for fixing him by the way, I know I’m not the only one who hates to see our boy upset. You know I really wish you wouldn’t fight so much, you shouldn’t let him get to you, nothing’s ever as serious as you think it is. I’ve been in the position enough times to learn when to just sit back and let things go, it’s better for you, and for everyone ultimately.” 

Sting grumbled at his advice, hard to admit someone was right then actually take it to heart. The immovable object met the unstoppable force in a turbulent coupling and here was Andy trying to play mediator like always. “...You can’t control him, but sometimes a gentler, guiding hand can help… That’ll be ten quid thankyou.”

“How bout ten quid and I don’t make you eat pavement, we’ll call it a trade,” Sting groused. 

“Mister Sumner you drive a hard bargain,” Andy jeered and left without any more.

 

Sting followed Stewart to some hole in the wall not far from where they’d played though he woud have completely missed it had he not pointed it out. The worn facade hardly suggested a nightclub, much less anything open, but inside the space was packed balls to the wall with writhing German youths. He could barely breathe how loud and tight everything was yet it was intoxicating, Stewart shouting over the din and starting to bounce to the heavy beat, “Pretty great huh!?”

He simply mouthed ‘what’ but found himself dragged deeper into the fray, quickly buried by flesh, the smell of smoke and sweat. There was no other choice than to get out or let himself too be swept up by the noise. A girl onstage moved with the music, violet light cast across their faces, hers sharp in a lavender chiaroscuro. Dark, brooding rock pulsed through the throbbing bodies in her sway, hypnotic thunder of drums and bass, the phantom drone of a synthesizer rising over the waves of sound.

 

Under the anonymity of darkness in a tiny dim lit West Berlin club, Sting quietly slipped his fingers into Stewart’s- who quietly accepted wrapping his larger hand around his and squeezing tight. He didn’t let go. Maybe a little was enough, afterall, they had all the time in the world, til the end of the tour. You could spend an eternity in the light.


End file.
